Angel of Music
by Chasing Clouds
Summary: Continuation of ALW movie that covers Erik's death. I chose to ignore the rose ending. Oneshot.


**This one I wrote because I disliked the ambiguity of the ALW movie. Beware of sappiness.**

_**Raoul's POV**_

Christine untied me and we fled. She left me to return a ring-my ring-to that man who had blighted our love, but came back to me. I was impatient. As we drifted over the lake surrounding that den of horror, she looked back. That look told me something, though I do not know what. For the moment I decided that it was the pull of her Angel she was fighting. I knew he had deceived her and bewitched her. It was easy to imagine she still felt his grip upon her. I poled the boat faster and harder, speeding up our journey and widening the gap between her and the Angel. When we reached the far shore, I took her hand to help her out of the boat. She smiled up at me with love in her gaze. We ran though the halls of the burning opera house, and when we were out of the inferno, I kissed her.

We broke apart and gazed at the burning Opera. Christine looked at me again, but she was no longer smiling. Tears filled her eyes as she watched her home burning. I gently turned her away from the sight and led her to my coach. We drove away in silence.

We were married soon afterward, and I knew only happiness. Yet again, as I looked at my wife, I saw tears in her eyes and grief in her face. I led her to a table laden with food, and when she looked at me again, I saw that she was trying to banish her grief and smile. I kissed her.

We lived happily for many, many years. But every so often, I saw that same fleeting look of sorrow cross her face. I would see it at what seemed odd times, at what ought to be moments of joy-when we celebrated the birth of our first child, when I purchased her a ruby necklace, when I presented her with a bouquet of roses on our twentieth wedding anniversary. It was odd-she never allowed her sadness to show for more than an instant. I wondered what hurt her so. It worried me. Each time I saw her misery I tried to divert her attention, but for the remainder of the day she would be uneasy and troubled. As we aged her sorrow became apparent more often. For years that unknown pain troubled us.

I never found out what caused it until my lovely wife was dying. She lay in bed, and as I grasped her hand, she whispered something, too softly for me to hear. Minutes later, she whispered it again, and this time I heard. She looked up at me, no longer able to disguise her sadness as she murmured, "Erik," over and over again. I gripped her palm tighter and held her gaze as long as I could, until I realized her hand was cold and her eyes could no longer see me. Then I sat back and thought as tears clouded my vision. I knew what had blighted her happiness for all those years. That first look of pain as we ran from fire in the Opera cellars should have told me. Her Angel had done more than entrance her with a fleeting magic. He had claimed part of her heart, a part she could never give to me. I chided myself for presenting her with those roses and thought of the pain it must have caused her to remember her childhood Angel of Music.

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_**Erik's POV**_

Face tear-streaked, I smashed my mirrors, one by one, until I came to the one that led to an escape route. I was too slow, however, and the little girl I had seen often with Christine saw me, took my mask, and followed. I stopped her and retrieved my mask, but I fear I am no longer an unknown personage. I will be discovered someday, possibly captured, and brought to justice.

Banishing thoughts of what my fate would be should I be caught, I ran down corridors, though passageways, up ladders, and down stairs. When I reached a deserted cave far from the Opera Populaire, I halted to secure my mask. I sat there in the darkness I was so accustomed to, and tears came once more. I sat in the shadow and sobbed, for unmeasured time. My own sobs were echoed back at me, and when I paused for a moment, the wails continued to sound all around me, like mocking spirits.

When the flood of tears stopped, I rose and continued my journey. I need only have stayed away from my home until the fire burned itself out, for my home is underground and surrounded by water and will not be touched by fire. Even so, I ran and ran, until I had to stop to breathe and rest. I knew I was miles from my lake and my home. I rested there, until my body was ready to run some more. I ran onward, until I came to what was once a rope bridge over an underground river far below. Rats had eaten some of the roes through. Rot had destroyed some. I stopped short. Running had taken me far from the momentary madness that had swept over me. Perhaps, as I slid through the mirror in my cellars, I would have tried that bridge; even knowing it would mean my death. Reason kept me from it; I was no longer suicidal. I turned from the torrent raced back to my home. Once there, I snuffed out most of my candles, leaving only enough burning to allow me to see far enough to reach the organ. I sat down and began to press the cream-colored keys.

Loneliness swept over me, and the tune I played was one of despair, misery, grief, and regret. Despair for the knowledge that I could never leave the underground passages I had frequented for a lifetime. Misery for the loss of the one person who might have forgiven my reddened, twisted face and loved me. Grief for the knowledge that Christine Daae would be only a memory for me. And regret for knowing that she could never forget the miseries I inflicted upon her, that she would resent me for blighting her love.

As I thought, and played, and cried again, my music changed to a mournful tune that spoke of nothing but loneliness. I played and played. I slept periodically, and ate little. Then I would return to my ever-changing music.

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_**Meg's POV**_

As I darted up the steps, he slipped into the mirror, closing a curtain after him. As he did so, I caught a brief glimpse of his face, and I saw it streaked with tears, twisted in anger or agony, or possibly both. It was the face of a man tortured for too long, too deeply, for him to escape from his past. One glimpse at that agonized face deterred any thoughts I might have had of slipping into that passageway behind him. I knew better than to follow him. He needed to be alone to heal in his own way. Companionship could not help a man who had been lonely for so long. I walked forward. Lying on a table was a white mask. I picked it up, and its feel changed my mind. I began to follow him, holding the mask before me like a peace offering. Before I had gone ten yards, however, strong arms shoved me back. I dropped the mask in shock, and I think I it picked up. Moments later, I heard a man's footsteps racing along stone passageways, and a flame of curiosity leaped inside me. I did my best to stamp it out, and began leading the mob along another passageway; one that I fervently hoped did not lead to Erik.

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For forty-seven years I kept this curiosity subdued. But the day came when I could ignore it no longer. Christine Daae's obituary appeared in the papers, and with it a brief account of that 'strange affair concerning the Opera Ghost.' I succumbed to curiosity and began planning how I could reach the Angel of Music.

The next morning I put on man's clothing beneath my dress. I walked to the Opera Populaire and entered unnoticed. I ran as quickly as I could to the remnants of Christine's old dressing room. At the end of the chamber stood an old, dirty, cobwebbed mirror. I slid this back, exposing a secret passage. I ran along this, taking the route I remembered from my childhood.

A very long while later, I came upon a vast underground lake, and I knew I was nearing Erik's home. As if to prove this theory, I began to hear the echoing strains of an organ, and to feel the presence of the Angel of Music.

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Moored by the edge of the lake was a small, cracked, slightly rotten boat, the same one Christine and Raoul had fled in as I led others in pursuit of Erik. I poled myself silently across the lake, under the open portcullis, and up onshore close to the source of the music. There, sitting at an organ, was a man with grey hair, a stooped back, and diminished posture. As I walked closer, I must have made a slight rustling noise, for Erik looked up at me. I saw that face, that face which had caused so many deaths, and saw little but an old man's sagging, aged face. It registered confusion for a moment, then anger and fear. I came forward, and he spoke.

"Who are you?"

"Giry," I said, hoping I would not need to explain further.

"You're too young."

"I'm her daughter." He thought for a moment, and apparently dredged up no memory of me. "Christine's friend." He thought some more, then looked at me rather oddly.

"You're the one who followed me before. I sent you back then, and I will again."

"Don't. I can tell you about Christine."

"She's dead. I already knew. Go."

I did not move. I was thinking furiously, trying to think of a reason to stay.

"Go!"

Still I remained motionless.

"GO!" The anger in his tone startled me, and I scurried over to the boat. I poled myself away, and the music began again.

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Two years later, an announcement went out: There was to be a public auction of all items within the Opera House. I attended and saw the Raoul De Chagny. I bought nothing. I followed him to the cemetery and watched him place a monkey music box on his wife's grave. Next to it was a rose and a ring, tied together with black ribbon. Erik's symbol. He sat transfixed by it for a moment, thought, reached a satisfactory decision, and went back to his wheelchair. I made my way to the Opera House again, and made that journey to Erik's home once more. This time there was no music. There was just an empty stillness that hung in the air until I was on land. Then I heard a ragged breathing coming from the mirror passageway Erik had escaped through once before. I had followed him then, but I did not do so now. I knew he was dying. There was little I could do. He wanted to be alone. I would let him have that, at the very least. I pulled down the curtain that covered the passage and looked around myself. I walked over to the organ and picked up the mask. I traced its outline, remembering everything this mask had experienced. The breathing grew slower, then stopped as my fingers rested upon the white surface. I placed the mask just inside the curtain and left, taking care not to disturb Erik's belongings as I slipped between them, pausing only to snuff out countless candles.

Far away, on the opposite side of the lake, I looked back. The one candle I had left burning flickered out, and as I stood there, I heard the faint echo of an organ, playing a tune never before heard by any human, save that one man, that Angel of Music.

**I warned you about the sappiness. I call it my style just to flatter my ego. Anyway I like reviews...**

**Note- If you've seen this story on or that's me and I'm not plagarising. Note the name is still Wonder Wombat. Thought that might clear up any confusion.**


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